


a current under sea

by cosmoscorpse



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, This is mostly a Character study, just two human disasters being disasters together, no beta readers we die, the burn is so slow its practically a pilot light, unions? i heard of em
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 20:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11562738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmoscorpse/pseuds/cosmoscorpse
Summary: In the summer of 1824, Jessamine Kaldwin goes to Karnaca.





	a current under sea

**Author's Note:**

> some content creators: play fast and loose with their canon  
> me: you are like a little baby, watch this -

_To Our dear Daughter,_

_Jessamine, word of your experiences in Wynnedown and Dabokva has reached Us in Dunwall and We could not be more pleased or proud. You are becoming a fine young lady during the course of this tour, We are told. We trust that Karnaca will be more of the same._

_With affection,_

_His Imperial Majesty Euhorn Kaldwin I._

 

.

 

~~_Papa_ ~~

~~_To my dear Father_ ~~

~~_to my father_ ~~

 

_To His Imperial Majesty Euhorn Kaldwin I,_

 

.

 

“Tell me, what was Dabokva like?” asks Louise Chattoway.

The deck of the ship sways under her feet, rising and falling on the waves. She clings to the railing and stares into the water. An hour ago there were dolphins, riding high on the wake of the ship - Lady Chattoway had only came out of her cabin to watch them, but they are long gone now. Jessamine sighs, and turns. Louise reclines on a lounge, tucked into the shade of the veranda, waving her fan idly. She peers at Jessamine from under the brim of her wide sunhat, and smiles.

Jessamine smiles back, blank and polite. The Lady Chattoway is, she’s learned, an incorrigible gossip above all other things. “It was cold,” she says with practiced ease, “And old. The glass in the windows of the house I stayed in was nearly an inch thick-”

“And the glass was a strange, milky teal,” finishes Louise, pouting, “You _told_ me _that_ already. What of Wynnedown?”

The smile on Jessamine’s face feels forced. She turns back to the water, and lets it slip. Watches the waves roll past, the land a faded echo on the horizon off the starboard side of the ship. “I already told you,” she says, “Quieter than you would think. It rained almost constantly for the duration of my stay.”

The Lady Chattoway closes her fan with an audible _snap_ and sighs petulantly. “Yes, you _said_ ,” she says, “And? I will beg more keenly of you if I must, your Grace, but _please_ do not spare me the gory details.”

 _Gossip._ Jessamine finds herself wishing for her hat, left below deck in the cabin assigned to her. The sun feels too hot, bearing down on her shoulders, the crown of her head. “I’m sure I don’t catch your meaning,” she says, and casts a hopeless wish into the water for the conversation to be over.

“You play at coyness so well, your Grace,” the Lady says, snorting lightly. Jessamine hears her stand, make her unsteady way across the deck to drape herself across the railing next to Jessamine. “Are we not friends? You do not need to affect yourself so in my company.”

She grins winningly from under her sunhat, teeth glinting like white pearls. Jessamine spares her a cursory glance before turning her gaze back to the land looming closer and closer. “Have _you_ never been to Wynnedown or Dabokva?” she asks, and fights to not grit her teeth.

“Of course not,” she says, letting an arm hang over the rail toward the water, palm open and fingers outstretched as if she fancies she can grasp the seafoam, “Well, _perhaps_ Wynnedown, for a brief holiday when I was a child. It was _some_ Morlish city - dreadfully cold. But I’ve heard the stories, you know.”

“What stories?” Jessamine asks. The one grace, she’s learned in the past week at sea, is that while the Lady seems to require a conversation partner at all times she does not need a particularly involved one.

The trick is getting her started, and it goes like so:  
  
Lady Louise Chattoway draws back, laying a slender hand over her breast in a shadow act of dismay. Her eyes glitter in her narrow face, and she reaches into her pocket to withdraw a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Why, I simply cannot believe you’ve never heard of the stories! I simply cannot believe it!” she says, fumbling gracefully with the smokes. She offers one to Jessamine, who accepts and allows her to light it. She lets it burn between her fingertips, the ash falling into the ocean. The Lady’s eyes are keen and alight with cruel humor, and smoke curls out of her grinning mouth. “Let me tell you of them.”

And then she spends the better part of the hour chattering - spinning grotesque tales. Jessamine has heard them before - the Lady has shared them before. It is a playact, this, but it is entertaining, at least, to hear how the Lady crafts a more obscene, horrific story than the one she’d told previously. She talks of wolves in Dabokva that prowl the streets at night, snatching up stray children and young virgins alike, eating them nearly whole, save for leaving their bloodied hearts on doorsteps for mothers and fathers and lovers to find come dawn.

 _Nights in Dabokva can last for days on end_ , she says, and laughs smoke at the grisly implications.

And when she speaks of Wynnedown she paints a portrait of liars and thieves, pirates and cheats who would just as soon steal the rubies from one’s hands as the breath from one’s lungs.

“They drink blood,” she says of the women there, nodding solemnly, “Even the nobles. It keeps them young - I knew a woman who did so for eighty years and she looked no older than thirty. One cannot fault them for their cosmetic ingenuity, only their moral failings.”

She laughs again, like she’s made a particularly good joke.

And when her stories are done Jessamine sighs, and shrugs. She says, “Be it as it may, from what I saw the cities were no more wild or tame than Dunwall.”

Louise grins again, and drops her spent cigarette into the sea. “Then clearly you had not seen enough of Dunwall, your Grace.”

Things are silent between them, for a time.

“It is a brave thing for the Emperor to allow his only daughter to venture so far from home,” says Louise. Jessamine glances at her, sees her staring sidelong and sly.

“I insisted,” she says in response, and then turns away.

Jessamine blinks slowly. The conversation slides away like an oil slick on water, the sun bearing down like a sword. Louise complains, distantly, that it is too hot - that she is sick of the sea.

“We’ll make landfall tonight,” Jessamine says in response. She thinks she can see the faint beam of a lighthouse in daylight on the distant curve of a bluff. She thinks it is a comfort.

 

.

 

_~~To His Imperial Majesty Euhorn Kaldwin I,~~ _

 

_Father,_

 

.

 

The flowers are wilting in the vase, their blossoms turning soft and translucent in the bright midafternoon sunlight.

Though the windows are thrown wide open no cooling breeze comes through them; the heat lingers in the room, skulking around the walls, omnipresent and oppressive. It is only early morning and already stifling. Outside, the sky is cloudless, and very blue. A gull calls.

Jessamine’s hair sticks to the back of her neck. She stands barefooted in light trousers, her starched white shirt still unbuttoned. She breathes deeply through the thick heat and rolls her cufflinks between her fingers, the repetition of the motion and the soft _click_ they make sliding against each other soothing as much as it is a distraction. Behind her the maid that the Duke had provided fusses over a selection of waistcoats, darting into and out of the reflection of the vanity’s mirror.

“I can dress myself,” she says softly. The woman looks up, her eyes alert. Jessamine takes her cufflinks and fastens the sleeves of her shirt just above her wrists. She makes herself smile at the woman – starched, poised, polite. “I would like a moment alone. Thank you.”

The woman’s mouth presses thin – still, she drops into a quick curtsey and sets the waistcoats gently on the lounge. The door shuts quietly behind her.

Jessamine lets out a breath, allows her shoulders to slump and her toes to curl on the floor. She ducks her head and runs her hands through her hair, then presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. Outside the open windows, she can hear the sea beating against the rocks, and if she ignores the damned heat and the floral perfume from the flowers she can almost pretend that she is back in Dunwall.

It is a fleeting illusion, broken by the opening of the door. The individual coughs, their shoes scuffing on the floor. The door shuts.

“Well,” the individual speaks, voice bone-dry and wry, “Forgive me, miss; I am looking for my princess, but I seem to have misplaced her. Do you have any idea where she might have run off to?”

Jessamine lowers her hands, a tiny smile tugging at her mouth despite her growing headache. She turns to face the newcomer, who raises one dark eyebrow. The woman’s face, besides that, holds an expression of casual disinterest.

“Ah, there she is!” Kavita says, her tone lightly teasing, her arms crossed over her chest. “Your Grace, I did not recognize you in such a state of undress, and with you covering your face. Such cunning!”

“Good morning, Kavita,” Jessamine says. Kavita inclines her head, a rough sort of bow that turns into a stride that brings her to stand in front of the vanities. She begins to inspect the contents of the various pots and wooden boxes. Jessamine wonders how it is that she can stand the heat, dressed impeccably as she is in her starched uniform – silver buttons shining on her dark grey waistcoat –

“Were you planning on making yourself presentable, or were you going to lounge around all day in your underthings?” she asks, holding a crystalline bottle of perfume up to the light. She tilts her head toward Jessamine, who rolls her eyes and starts doing up the buttons on her shirt. “When you are Empress, you will not be able to just _dismiss_ your maids while they are in the process of dressing you, your Grace-”

She cannot help herself – she rolls her eyes again, mutters, “When I am Empress I think I will be able to do anything I like. And it was only the one woman, I wouldn’t have dismissed _you_.”

Kavita fixes her with a baleful stare, “- _As_ _much_ as you might like to,” she finishes.

She bites the inside of her cheek and finishes the last button at her throat, smoothing down her collar. Her hair falls down over her shoulder, and she pushes it aside. Kavita sets the perfume bottle back down on the vanity, perhaps more solidly than is necessary. Jessamine clears her throat, her hands suspended useless and still over the placket of her shirt.

“Will you help me with my hair?” she asks quietly, her eyes trained carefully on her bare toes. She sighs, and Jessamine chances a glance upwards – she is smiling. The expression is small, an understated thing, easily looked over.

“Yes, come here,” she says, motioning to the chair at the vanity. Jessamine goes – she sits carefully, minding her shirt and trying not to crease wrinkles into it. “But remember, Jessamine; when you are Empress you must allow your maids to help you with your hair.”

As she speaks she picks up a comb from the edge of the table, and she begins running it through Jessamine’s hair in long, slow strokes. All the while she drags it away from her face, and up. “I have you,” Jessamine says. Kavita sighs, clicks her tongue against her teeth.

She shrugs. “Yes,” she says, the hint of a wry smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. “You do.”

“Thank you,” Jessamine says.

She twists Jessamine’s hair, holds it in place with a practiced finger while her free hand reaches for pins. These she slides quickly into place, ease born of familiarity. “What waistcoat will you wear?” she asks, patting Jessamine’s shoulder to get her up and out of the chair once her hair is pinned firmly in place. “And where are your stockings and your boots?”

“Um,” Jessamine says, turning her head and feeling the weight of her pinned hair – strange! even after years of wearing it in the fashion – she waves a hand toward the window and the dressers there, “Stockings should still be in the drawers, and my boots were here – just a moment ago. I was considering the Dabokvan Green?”

Kavita pauses, already halfway to the dresser, to turn and raise another eyebrow at her charge. Jessamine raises her wrists, flashing the green stones of her cufflinks. “To match these,” she says, her voice small but still steady, “And my mother’s brooch.”

Understanding flashes in her eyes, quick as sympathy. Both are smoothed away soon enough that it only stings Jessamine’s pride a little. She raises her chin. Kavita looks away and continues on to the dresser.

“I see,” she says, “It is a good choice. Better than the purple, at any rate. You will not look so pale.”

She opens the drawers, fishing out a suitable pair of dark stockings for Jessamine to wear. Jessamine herself turns to the lounge, where she slips into the waistcoat and buttons it down, smoothing it over her shoulders. “Come here,” Kavita calls, and Jessamine goes – back to the vanity and the chair there. She sits and pulls on the stockings that have been laid out for her, and wrinkles her nose only minutely at the boots.

“Do you think laced is the proper choice?” she asks, glancing from the shoes to Kavita, who only widens her eyes and shrugs. Perhaps the courtly fashion is different in Karnaca, but Jessamine knows that if she wore laced boots to a meeting with her father he would –

“They were the only ones I found,” she says, pulling a dark amberwood box from a drawer in the vanity, “And besides, you are only meeting with the Duke for breakfast, so I would not concern myself with it. I’ve overheard talk – Theodanis is not a man preoccupied by pomp and circumstance.”

“That is – different,” Jessamine murmurs. Kavita hums a soft agreement. She pulls on her boots, and when she has finished doing up the laces she looks up to see that she has taken the amberwood box and is holding it open for her. Inside is a brooch, meant to hang heavy and glittering at her throat. The gemstone is dark malachite, set into a brushed bronze that matches metal of the pocket watch nestled next to it on the velvet.

Jessamine throat is tight. She swallows past it, and reaches into the box. She pins the brooch at her throat where it is meant to be, and arranges the watch and chain onto her waistcoat. She stands, and adjusts her clothing one last time.

“Am I presentable?” she asks, folding her hands in front of her – demure and _regal_ , as much as she can be, however much she feels more like a banker and less like an heir to a throne. Kavita glances her over, magpie eyes critical.

“You are imperial,” she says finally, heavily. She tilts her head, smiles, “Remember to breathe, Jessamine.”

Jessamine catches her own gaze in the mirror – and she thinks she looks too grim, too skinny to be anything but herself. She forces herself to smooth the frown off her face, to smile back at Kavita, even if it is only a little thing.

She looks down, nods to herself. She says, “Your Grace, I will call for someone to escort you to the Duke’s private patio.”

She is halfway to the door before Jessamine speaks again.

“Kav?” she asks, her voice softer than she would like it to be. Still, the woman stops, turns her head back to Jessamine, expression one of waiting. She swallows her grimace, leaves the blank smile on her face, “Have we received any word from Dunwall?”

Kavita blinks, languid, unreadable. “No, your Grace.”

The smile remains; blank and flawless. Her father would be so pleased. She says, “Thank you anyway.”

 

.

 

_father,_

_Let me come home_

 

.

 

Duke Theodanis Abele is not an imposing man. He is shorter than she expected – smaller, in spite of his broad shoulders, than his statues and his portraits had made him seem. Kinder, too, than she has come to expect in her travels; with his dark hair shot through with grey and his clothing cut plainly in shades of rust and gold and his eyes crinkling at the corners.

He looks like a man – only himself, a man who might be found anywhere; and nothing like the cold nobility that the High Judges in Tyvia grasped after, nothing like the bitter and careful quiet the Morlish King and Queen kept. Different even from the manner of her father (Distracted and aloof. Immortal, and sure to remind everyone around him of it).

The Duke sits across from her at a small table, carving fruit and sipping at dark, pungent coffee – and if there is a motive in his actions, a pretense, she cannot see it. He seems sincere in a way that she hasn’t yet encountered and she does not know, entirely, what to do with it.

“How are you enjoying Karnaca, your Grace?” he asks, his voice soft and lightly accented. “I know you’ve only just arrived, but I trust the rooms are to your liking?”

Jessamine smiles – quick and reflexive, only the curving of her lips. “The rooms are lovely, thank you,” she says, “And I am sure your city is just as much so – I will be looking forward to seeing more of it.”

The Duke laughs, a wide and genuine smile showing the white of his teeth. He ducks his gaze, fingers working at peeling the skin from an orange – grown on an island a little bit west of Saggunto, he’d told her, and the figs are from Bastillian, the grapes from Cullero; only the grain used in the porridge is from Gristol – and he offers her a slice.

“Of course, and you may tour it at your leisure,” he says, “We are pleased to have you here, for however long you choose to stay.”

Jessamine blinks slowly and then reaches out to take the orange slice from him. She allows herself to laugh, high and polite and quick, like her smile. “You don’t need to be so polite, Duke Abele. I am sure the Emperor will call me back to Dunwall sooner rather than later,” she swallows; her palm, hidden from view, flattens against her thigh – an effort to keep herself grounded. The lie, when it comes, slides easily off her tongue, “He was not entirely sold on the notion of the tour when I proposed it to him.”

She bites into the orange, bright citrus filling her mouth. The Duke shakes his head, says, “Please, your Grace, call me Theodanis; you are a guest in my home and our Princess besides.”

Jessamine blinks again, and tilts her head. Finally, finally, a breeze comes up off the ocean and cools her under her collar. “Then of course you must call me Jessamine,” she says.

He laughs, stretching and leaning back in his chair. His hand strokes absentmindedly at his beard and he nods. “Very well,” he says, still chuckling, “So, Jessamine – have you had Serkonan coffee?”

She has, but – “We did keep some on hand at Dunwall Tower,” she says, inclining her head, “It was always very… bitter.” She had no taste for it, preferred tea, with milk and honey – the coffee had always been too dark for her, and too full of stray grounds. It had always smelled far better than it had tasted.

Theodanis nods, leaning forward to grab a tall carafe and a white porcelain cup off the table. “Yes, it certainly can be,” he says while he settles a wire strainer over the rim of the cup and begins pouring the dark liquid in. She can smell it – the heady dark aroma not entirely unlike wood smoke, though sweeter – it mixes with the salt coming up off the ocean and the fruit on the table. She breathes in deeply. “I find, however, that most often the bitterness comes from a spoiling of the beans, or the mistake of brewing in too-hot water.

“Here,” he says, settling the carafe down near his boot, shaking the wire strainer onto a napkin. He holds the cup out to her almost daintily, “Try this.”

Jessamine takes the cup from him, nodding her thanks. She holds it like he had been – between her fingertips, hyperaware of the heat bleeding through the thin porcelain – and she raises it to her lips. Takes a cautious sip.

Theodanis is smiling, the skin around his eyes lifting and folding. He leans forward on the table, propping his chin up with his hand. “You will not offend me if you do not like it,” he says, “Even if brewed properly it can be an acquired taste.”

Jessamine nods and sets the cup down gently. “It is – good,” she says. Better than the stuff in Dunwall Tower had been, at least. Sweeter and smokier, but without the lingering sense of ash on her tongue. Theodanis narrows his eyes at her, tilts his head, and she snorts. She covers her growing smile with her hand and blinks, surprised at herself.

The Duke shakes his head, leans back and claps his hands together. “Perhaps you would like it better with honey, or sugar. Or perhaps chilled,” he shrugs, smoothing out his beard with his thumb, “Maybe you will grow a taste for it in your time with us.”

He turns his gaze away from her, out to the crashing waves beyond the edge of the patio. Jessamine lowers her hand, folds it with the other in her lap. “Perhaps,” she agrees lightly, closing her eyes and turning her face up to the sun, soaking in the heat, “Is it always so warm here?”

Theodanis nods, humming thoughtfully.

“It is lucky,” he says, “That the weather has been so kind to us, as of late – generally Rain brings, well – rain. But no, it is never truly _cold_ in the way that you, coming from Dunwall, might expect.”

Jessamine breathes out, and closes her eyes. “It must be nice,” she says, sunlight highlighting the veins in her eyelids. The warmth sinks in her, down to her bones.

 

.

 

_“Do you miss her?”_

_“What kind of question is that?” Euhorn hardly glances up from the documents on his desk. His spectacles are slipping low on his nose. “Sit properly.”_

_Jessamine sighs, drags herself out of the slouch she’d sprawled into in the armchair. She leans forward, pinning her father with her gaze. Waits for him to spare a moment to look up. “It’s a question,” she says, “Sometimes I wonder.”_

 

.

 

Louise Chattoway holds a silver pendant up in the sunlight - it swings on the chain, glinting brightly.

“The chambers Duke Abele provided you are _very_ nice,” Louise says, spinning her parasol idly against her shoulder with her free hand. Dappled shadows flicker across her shoulders, across her cheekbones and her vague smile. “From what I saw you have the most delightful view!”

Jessamine hums in agreement, shifting her grip on her own parasol. The sun bears down heavy, baking the cobblestones and making the street sing with heat. Even with the shade afforded by the parasol she feels like she may melt, and she fights the urge to undo the top button of her starched collar. She flickers her gaze over the display cases set up on the curbside - the array of silver and fine jewels catching the bright sun in a dazzling display. “Do your rooms not have the same view?” she asks, and is genuinely, if idly curious. Louise had cornered her soon after she’d returned from breakfast with the Duke, and she’d not had a chance to see the rooms she had been put up in before she was dragged out into the city on a “tour”, as it had been put. She reaches out to run a finger over a set of garnet earrings - the smoothed stones click against each other softly.

“No,” Louise says, a pout heavy in her voice. She puts down the pendant, finding it lacking. “No, my rooms face shore-side. I have a quaint view of a courtyard, but not much else.”

“That’s not so terrible,” Jessamine says, “The palace’s courtyards are lovely.”

She’d passed several on her way to and from her way to the Duke - they’d been shaded and cool, full of greenery and quiet fountains. She thinks it would be nice to rest for a while in the cool space. Louise sighs dramatically.

“An apt assessment, but they do lack a sea breeze. It got dreadfully hot in the night,” she shakes her head, shrugs, and then turns her attention back to the contents of the display case, “It’s of no real matter, though. I’ll only be staying at the palace another night, perhaps two. _And_ I cannot expect the Duke to put me up in his finest rooms; I am not, after all, the daughter of our good Emperor.”

She says the last with a wink directed sideways at Jessamine. Jessamine tilts her head. “Surely you will not be returning to Dunwall so soon?” she asks, thinking that certainly Louise wouldn’t have spared the chance to  mention as such at some point during the voyage from Wynnedown.

Louise laughs, reaching out for a fine silver pocket watch. “Of course not,” she says lightly, “My late husband left me a house in Aventa District, and an apartment above his mines’ offices in Batista. Do you like those earrings?”

Jessamine blinks - realizing that she’s been lingering over the same pair. The stones catch the light in a captivating manner; the red looks shot through with gold. She withdraws her hand, folds it over the stock of her parasol. “I do,” she says coolly, meeting Louise’s sharp gaze.

Louise smiles. “They’re quite nice,” she says, “Although if you don’t mind me saying, I do think green is more your color. The house will take at least a day to be made ready - but I hope to host a dinner within the next week. You will attend of course?”

“I would be honored,” Jessamine says politely, turning her attention away from Louise and the silver in array around her and surveying the street. She can hear music from the plaza - the push of the ocean. The hum of conversation of the throngs of passerby in the rest of the market - they give the two of them a wide berth, likely due to the presence of the four armed guardsmen the Duke provided to escort them. Jessamine catches the wary glances, the whispers passed, and she wishes she spoke enough of Serkonan to recognize more than only the cadence of the language.

She wonders what they think of them.

“Excuse me,” Louise says, and Jessamine starts, turns back to see Louise holding the watch out for the inspection of the stall’s vendor. The man leans forward, pushing his thick-paned glasses higher on his nose with blue stained fingertips, “Excuse me, from which mine did this silver come?”

The man hems and haws, pursing and unpursing his lips. “From the Espinosa Collective mines, I believe,” he says, in a voice that creaks like bent metal.

She blinks. Points to a fine set of hairpins, heavy and of a silver so dark and smooth it appears nearly black, inlaid with jade gemstones. “And these?”

“The Pendleton share, my Lady."

Louise’s mouth twists briefly, unhappily. She sniffs delicately, smooths the expression from her face, and half turns to Jessamine. “I will bring up the impurities with my foreman when we meet with him today; I’ll not have the _Pendletons_ providing finer materials than my own damned mines,” she mutters, then turns back to the vendor who stands frozen, still wringing his hands. “I’ll take the pins and this watch.”

The man bobs into a half-nod, half-bow, moves to wrap the pins in brown paper. He offers to do the same with the watch, but Louise sighs and shakes her head, tucks it into her jacket’s inner pocket. She drops her coins into his waiting hand.

They move on, their guard escort falling into line; two in front and two behind. Louise lifts her chin, narrowing her eyes at the crowds they cut through.

“I _hate_ not knowing what they’re saying,” she says softly. Jessamine blinks slowly, watches an older woman chewing tobacco in the shade of a stoop spit ungracefully to the side. Louise makes a soft sound of disgust. She says, “It’s disrespectful, don’t you think?”

Jessamine hums, noncommital. As they pass by, the woman spits again, retreats through the door and into the shadow of the building.

“Oh, before I forget,” Louise says, her tone brightening, “I did get these for you.”

She presses the wrapped pins into Jessamine’s hands.

“They’re a gift,” she says when a moment passes and Jessamine remains silent, dumbstruck.

“—Thank you,” she says, shaking the confusion free. Louise laughs, a glass on glass sound.

“Your Grace, I must thank you for indulging me,” she smiles, brittle-sharp. It is a court-smile. Jessamine tucks the pins up under her arm, beating back the weariness making a home behind her eyes. She wonders what it is the Lady Chattoway _wants_. She is still speaking, though, her tone gone low and sober, “I’m sure that you have your own mourning attire, but I wanted you to know that I grieve with you. I know that we are approaching the - anniversary of your mother’s passing.”

 _Oh_.

Jessamine presses her lips together, and says nothing at all.

 

.

 

“—Bergman _can’t_ work, Stefan - his leg—“ There’s a woman shouting in the foyer of the Espinosa Collective mine offices. Her voice carries out the open doors, echoing through the marble-and-hardwood space. “We - he’s not _asking_ for much, it’s not like he wants the _deed_ \--”

The man looks tired. The woman looks more so - with dust on her clothes and in her hair, dark circles more like bruises than shadows under her eyes. The man raises a hand to cut her off when their party step through the doors and out of the hot wind. The man glances up, and Jessamine sees a moment of pure unadulterated panic flit across his features.

“That’s his problem, Hypatia,” he says quickly, lowly, “I wish I could help, I do, but I can’t. You know how it works. You need to go now.”

The woman stares, dead-eyed, focus flicking from the man, to Louise and Jessamine, and back to the man. Finally she nods. “You could _help_ if you had half an inclination to. Anyone ever tell you you’re a cold bastard?” she asks, voice sharp enough to cut. “We’ll be in touch, Stef.”

“Looking forward to it,” the man snaps. “Goodbye.”

She leaves, brushing past Jessamine without a backwards glance. The man sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Louise clears her throat delicately, pointedly shutting her parasol. She steps forward, Jessamine following suit.

“Stefan Boniface,” she says, dragging out the syllables of the man’s name, voice dripping saccharine sweet. His expression morphs into a warm smile and he holds his arms out for Louise - she embraces him and Jessamine watches as they press chaste, friendly kisses to the other’s cheek. The man - Stefan - is from Gristol, Jessamine thinks. His accent suggests something similar to the diplomats from Redmoor in her father’s court. “My friend, you _dog_ \- allow me to introduce you to Her Imperial Highness, Princess Jessamine Kaldwin.”

Mr. Boniface’s eyes go wide and latch on Jessamine. She raises her chin and smiles kindly, politely, leaves her hands folded over the stock of her parasol in front of her. He dips into a bow.

“Your Highness,” he says, voice gone low and sober with gravitas, “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” she demurs. The tone of his voice makes her teeth ache (reminds her of her father’s court).

Mr. Boniface smiles stiffly, nods and dips into a bow once more. He turns to Louise, his face flickering into an expression of apology. He holds his hands over his heart. “My dearest Louise, you look radiant; I am so sorry you had to see that _awful_ spectacle.”

Louise sniffs. “Oh, it looked like you resolved it quickly enough. I assume she was from the union?”

Mr. Boniface sighs and nods, takes Louise gently by the elbow. He leads her, and Jessamine follows, an afterthought, into an adjoining office, maps and charters hung on the walls and strewn across the fine amberwood desks. Jessamine drifts to one of the windows, settling in and watching the street, one ear trained to the conversation the other two are carrying on.

“She was,” Mr. Boniface says, his tone heavy with contempt, “Since your husband’s - _passing_ \- they’ve been. Well.”

“Inclined to cause trouble?” Louise says with the same air, and Jessamine can see his faint reflection nod in the window, overlaid by a man sitting under the veranda of a nearby cafe smoking a pipe. She thinks she sees the woman - _Hypatia_ , Mr. Boniface had called her - duck into a shaded doorway - but she can’t be sure. The distance, and the dust grime coating the pane, make it hard to know for sure.

“Manageable,” Mr. Boniface says, “Of course, but there was a collapse in the third reach, and the heads of the union are blaming the local _foreman_ for -” he makes a dismissive grunt in the back of his throat, waving his hand through the air. He drags a ledger from a shelf and lays it out on the desk for Louise.

“Of course, according to them it comes back us; I’ll not bore you with details of _that_ , I’m sure you’d rather hear about our _profits_ -”

Louise makes a noise of agreement, and pulls a chair out to sit in. Jessamine turns from the window, clears her throat. “Lady Chattoway, I believe the heat has given me a headache. You’ll pardon me of course, but I think I ought to retire back to the palace and leave you to your business here.”

Louise lays a hand on her chest. “Of course!” she says.

 

.

 

She takes her dinner that evening on a terrace above one of the Duke’s courtyards, a fountain cooling the shaded air. It is a quiet affair - she cited her headache and was spared from conversational company - she eats and drinks alone.

In the courtyard below the Duke had taken his quiet evening meal - he’d retired a half hour earlier to the study behind the tall windows, and Jessamine can see him there still, poring over paperwork, his spectacles sliding down the bridge of his nose.

His sons - young boys named Luca and Radanis - remain in the courtyard, kicking their feet idly and tossing bread crumbs from their plates into the fountains for the fish. Luca chatters louder than his brother, and it’s him that Jessamine listens to. He babbles on and on about pirates and lords and kings, and she thinks that he sounds nothing at all like his father. He holds up his dinner knife like a sword, clutched tight in a chubby adolescent fist, puffing his chest up in bravado, and he whines in petulance when his brother, younger and more uncoordinated, can’t quite do the same.

“Your Grace?”

Jessamine startles and turns, setting her wineglass down on the table. Kavita stands in the arched doorway, her hands clasped loosely around a fresh carafe of wine.

“Kav,” Jessamine says after a moment of silence, in seeing that it’s only her in the doorway, “Hello, please, come sit.”

Kavita bobs her head, steps forward lightly to set the wine down on the table.

“I heard you were feeling unwell?” she asks, her tone dry and inquiring. Jessamine snorts, reaches for her glass again.

“I - am feeling much better,” she says finally, “Has Lady Chattoway returned from the city?”

Kavita regards her with a cool, long stare, then she shakes her head. “She hasn’t,” she says, “I believe one of her attendants mentioned that she had unexpectedly made plans to spend the evening in the company of old friends near Ravina Boulevard.”

“So she won’t be returning?”

“She won’t be returning tonight.”

Jessamine exhales slowly, slumps slightly in her seat. She tilts her glass, watching the wine stain the sides of the glass in little waves.

“Is she that bad?” Kavita asks, reaching out to pour her own glass.

“There was - a woman,” Jessamine says, her voice gone halting and slow, “I think she represented the union, or perhaps she was a doctor. I didn’t get a chance to ask; she was - dismissed. From the offices, when we arrived.”

“What was she asking for?” Kavita asks, setting the carafe down. Her eyes have gone flat like black glass, placid as water. Jessamine exhales roughly, thinking of the woman, the silver dust caked into her knuckles.

“Nothing unreasonable,” Jessamine says, “I think.”

 

.

 

Moonlight spills in through the open window, pooling like liquid across the floor, casting everything in strange shadow and unearthly glow. Jessamine lays on her side on the bed and breathes in the sticky silence, listening to the soft _tick, tick, tick_ of the watch in her hand. Outside the window, somewhere on the rocks below and the crashing waves, a bird calls. Not a gull – something with a voice more full. Heavier.

Something large. She is reminded of the massive Serkonan owls she had seen sketches of in her schoolbooks, when she was younger, and heard of again more recently. She’s heard that the Karnacan Royal Conservatory has a stuffed pair, that the birds were large enough to pick up a grown man and dash his skull against the rocks.

She shivers, a full body tremble, and she sits up, letting the bedsheet fall down around her waist. Presses her hands against her eyes in an attempt to will away the morbid thoughts. She sighs, pushing her hair away from her face, gently knocking the cool metal of the pocket watch against her temple. It is twenty minutes to eleven, and she won’t be sleeping any time soon.

There are enough books on the shelves in the room to occupy her, she supposes, enough candles and matches too; but the bird makes the same, strange lilting sound and her attention is drawn, again, to the open window.

And she hesitates, caught frozen in moonlight on the edge of her bed, a faint midnight sea-breeze drifting into the room, sending a chill down her spine where her nightshirt sticks to her skin.

 

.

 

_What are you going to do?_

_Nothing unreasonable,_ she thinks.

 

.

 

It is a simple enough thing to shed one skin for another - she is practiced enough in the technique, growing up in Dunwall’s court. She follows the same winding path that Louise took her on earlier in the day, and the streets are transformed by dusk into new beasts. It is muggier down in the warren of the streets than it had been up on the sea-swept rock the Grand Palace had been built on. The hot night air sings, and goes nowhere.

Jessamine winds her way into the heart of the city as no one in particular, with her shoulders loose and a cap pulled low over her eyes, no guard accompaniment to slow her. The blocks pass by quickly, slipping from shadow to pool of sticky warm light to shadow again. No one pays her any mind at all save the violinist who nods when she drops a copper coin into her case.

Batista seemed further from the palace during the day. Jessamine doesn’t find herself overly superstitious or inclined to flights of fancy, but she is reminded - there was a story that her mother used to tell her, that darkness bent distance in on itself. The memory of the story catches and follows her while she makes her way through the warren.

 

She finds herself in a square a block from Espinosa Offices, staring down a brick wall plastered thick with advertisements. She feels - pinioned - unsure of what she’s looking for; half the posters are written in Serkonan and she feels foolish for not knowing it, but her father, her _tutors,_ never presented anything but the Imperial Standard as something worth learning. What she can’t read from the Serkonan, weather and paint has done away the rest - she can glean _fragments_ , and she assumes, based in the woodcut pick and shovel illustrations on the remaining scraps that it’s something to do with the mines (everything’s to do with the mines, she thinks) - but she’s lost on the broader scope. She feels foolish.

“I’m sorry, are you looking for something?” a quiet rasping voice interrupts her thoughts, and she jerks slightly, turning her head to see a man standing a few feet away, a vaguely concerned expression set on his features.

She ducks her head, her cheeks burning, and she steps away from the wall. “I - don’t know where I’m going,” she mutters, halfway to herself, but the man seems to take it as a response, shifting the bag of groceries on his hip and stepping closer, peering over her shoulder at the advertisements on the wall.

He brushes his hair out of his eyes - it shines copper under the heavy light of the streetlamp. He frowns. “I don’t suppose you were looking to attend the Union meet, were you? It’s been cancelled. Were you planning - to meet someone there?” his voice lilts up with the question.

Jessamine remembers the woman in the Espinosa offices - and without thinking blurts the name, “Hypatia?” She snaps her mouth shut.

The man draws back, his brows coming together. “You know Alex?”

Jessamine hesitates, biting down on her tongue, the blush in her cheeks rising higher. The man’s frown deepens.

“Does Alex know _you_?” he asks.

Her lungs feel overfilled. She says, “No,” and then when his frown deepens she adds quickly, her voice sounding small in her ears, “I - just want to help. In any way I can.”

It’s a pale response. The man tilts his head, considering. Jessamine’s heart makes a home in her throat, and she wishes Kavita were with her so she could know what to say.

“Where are you from? Gristol?” he asks finally, just when Jessamine thinks the silence is fit to snap her in half.

“Yes,” she says, thankful for an easy answer.

“You said you wanted to help,” he says, his tone gone measured, thoughtful, “What did you mean by that?”

“I - don’t know,” she says. An easy truth, again, even if it makes him cast her another strange look.

He snorts.

“Who _are_ you?” he asks, after another beat of silence.

That - is no easy answer. Her heart burns a hole in her throat. The truth - _Jessamine Kaldwin, Daughter of Euhorn Kaldwin I, Crown Princess of the Empire of the Isles, Heir Apparent to the Throne in Dunwall_ \- is too bare, too heavy a thing. She can’t be Jessamine Kaldwin - but who is she if not herself? Here, in a foreign city, speaking plainly to a stranger?

“Jessamine,” she says It’s the truth, sticky as it may be. She’s not the only girl named Jessamine in the Isles. The silence stretches between them again, filled by a street musician setting up the next corner down, singing; the same strange bird call Jessamine had heard in her room in the palace sounding again.

Finally the man sniffs, scrubs a hand over the back of his skull, smoothing the hair there. He shrugs a burly shoulder, the motion lazy.

“Fair’s fair - I’m Aramis. The meeting’s cancelled,” he says, and he gestures at the bag still on his hip, “But I was going to take dinner to Alex. If you want to come along, you can, and then - we can see if there’s anything you can do.”

 

.

 

_“What?”_

_“This will be good for you,” her father says, his tone infuriatingly collected - he won’t look at her, “And it will be good for the Empire - we’ve been over this--”_

_“You’re sending me away?”_

_“-- you will be the head of an Empire, it will be good for our nations to come to know you on this - tour of good faith,” he punctuates this with a flourished signature on a document, holds it up to the light coming in through the windows, “Really, I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss about this.”_

 

.

 

She follows Aramis deeper still into the warren of streets - he leads her to a rundown tenement building nearer to the Batista overlook. The winds pick up the closer they get to the escarpments, windmills creaking high above the streets, turning and turning. She follows him up four narrow flights of stairs, the treads worn down and plaster cracked along the seams of the walls. The wind whistles, and Jessamine thinks it seems quieter in the buildings than it should be.

She makes a passing comment on that somewhere around the third landing, and he shrugs again, lazy, says, “Most people around here had someone in the collapse,” like it’s an obvious reason for the silence, “It’s sobering.”

She remembers - a collapse had been mentioned in passing when Louise had dragged her to her foreman’s office. The silence in the building lends a new weight to it. “I - heard about that,” she says softly.

Aramis says, “I’m sure you haven’t heard the half of it,” and he pushes open a door on the fourth landing. A hallway stretches beyond it - dimly lit and narrow. Wind curls through the shuttered windows and gutter at the flames in the oil lamps. He walks two doors down, and knocks on the third.

A young woman opens the door, drying her hands on a towel. Aramis smiles, says, “Alex -”

Her face softens - and it’s then that Jessamine connects her with the woman from the Espinosa offices. The shape of her face is changed by the shadows cast by the oil lamps. She tucks the towel into a pocket on her apron and brushes a curling strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. She says, “Aramis,” and then sees Jessamine standing a step behind him and says, “You brought a friend?”

“With luck,” he says, “This is Jessamine. Did we interrupt something, shall I set your dinner somewhere while you get back to it?”

“No,” she says, still staring at Jessamine, her expression inscrutable, “I actually just finished.”

 

.

 

_“You’re sending me away,” she says, something clawing up in her chest, setting her hands shaking, “Did I - was it something I -”_

_“Don’t be so dramatic,” he says, setting the document down, “Hysterics do not become you. As I said - we’ll present this as your idea, if questioned - and it won’t be questioned - think: the heiress taking an interest in the countries she is set to govern.”_

_She inhales deeply, blinks past the stinging in her eyes. “For how long?” she asks, her voice sounding like a wooden thing to her ears._

 

.

 

“So who are you, again?” Alexandria asks, leaning back in her chair at the table. The lights on the tavern walls cast long, grim shadows over the planes of her face.

“Jessamine,” she says, her hands curled loosely on the table in front of her. She waits a moment, but neither she nor Aramis press her on that.

“From Gristol?”

“From Gristol,” Aramis says for her, not quite sitting in his seat yet.

“And you want to help?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, you’re fresh off the boat, aren’t you?” Alexandria mutters, running her fingers through her hair.

“Don’t answer that,” Aramis says, casting a stern glance in her direction, an apologetic one in Jessamine’s.

“Do you have anywhere to be?”

The hour is late. Jessamine only hesitates a moment before saying, “Not anytime soon.”

He nods. “What do you drink?”

“Whiskey,” she says after a beat, “Neat.”

Aramis nods again, appreciative. “We don’t have fancy top-shelf shite, but it’s still good. Alex, the usual for you?”

She nods, setting into a heel of dark rye bread pulled from the bag Aramis had brought, “See if you can’t bum a cigarette off the barman too?”

He waves in acknowledgement, moves off. Jessamine and Alexandria sit in silence, Jessamine running her fingers lightly over the whorls in the table.

“I’ll cover my own tab,” Jessamine says quietly, for lack of anything else to say, to break the awkward quiet.

Alexandria raises an eyebrow - but she smiles softly, just the barest tilt of her lips breaking through her sober expression. “Do you play cards?” she asks, and Jessamine nods, relieved.

“Well enough,” she says - mostly thanks to late nights spent playing with Kav - Alexandria produces a deck from an inner pocket of her waistcoat.

“Alright,” she says, “Then let’s play a hand or two, and you can hear about what we’re trying to do.”

 

.

 

_“For how long?” she asks again. Her father sighs heavily, and finally, finally, deigns to meet her eyes._

_“Nothing unreasonable,” he says, his eyes (_ her _eyes) cold and imperial, “For long enough.”_

 

.

 

The bell above the door jingles as it opens, the sound of it startling Jessamine, who snaps fully awake, staring at the rose-pale light drifting in through the high windows on the far wall.

Morning. She feels a distinct sinking sensation in her gut, and she clenches down on her jaw. She moves to stand from her seat, stumbling only slightly on the leg of the chair. She stands there, swaying, a hand bracing herself on the table-edge, a headache forming behind her eyes, _pulsing_. She hadn’t meant to -

Someone clears their throat, loud over Aramis’s gentle snoring. Jessamine looks to the sound, squinting through the morning light. There’s a man standing just inside the doorway – it was the sound of his entry that woke her, she realizes.

“Your Grace,” says the man softly, standing at ease, his hands clasped behind his back. He’s wearing the red uniform of the Serkonan Grand Guard, and at that recognition the implications of what he said hit her. Her breath catches in her throat, her hand tightening on the table. The man inclines his head, the expression on his face unreadable even as he steps closer to her, “I am Captain Corvo Attano; Duke Abele has sent me to escort you back to the palace. Will you come with me?”

 

.

.

.

 

_for my dearest child,_

_jessamine, my sweet girl; your father has told me that you have been troubled lately by the prospect of your younger sibling coming into the world - you must know that your father and i shall not love you any less!! I am sorry to have had to go away for a little while - soon you and your father will be able to join me (and our newest family member!) in potterstead. It is only a little while left - here is a watch that i had made special for you, to count the moments until we are together again_

_with much love,_

_mama_

 

.

 

She loses track of when she stops waiting for word from Dunwall.

 

.

 

She slips out again; the palace grows stifling, and there is no guard in the hallways beyond her chambers, so she bribes a kitchen girl to let her out of a servant’s entrance which deposits her in a quiet side-alley in the palace district, some way past the tall gates. Habit keeps Jessamine to the shadows at the edge of the streetlights, and it helps slide gazes off of her.

She gathers her bearings at the edge of a little square a few streets away from the servant’s entrance. The palace is at her back, and the square is quiet, mostly, except for soft music and laughter drifting out of a third-floor window and the bell-soft sound of water in the fountain.

She knows from the maps she’d found in the books she’d been gifted that south and east of the palace district lie the dockyards, including Campo Seta and Marchetta and Achillan, among others; past that is Batista.

She had promised Aramis and Alexandria that she’d meet with them again – and she intends to – but perhaps not tonight. The thought of answering the difficult questions they no doubt have for her - she’d been collected by a senior officer of the Guard by order of the Duke, (been called _“Your Grace”_ ) - and she still remembers Aramis’ wide eyes as the implications of it sunk in. She thinks perhaps Alexandria had always known.

But tonight, tonight - she _wants_ to not be Jessamine, Crown Princess of the Isles, the only heir to Euhorn Kaldwin. For a night, again, if she can have it, she wants to be only herself again, stripped of her titles, down to her skin.

And – the Duke had not forbidden it. He’d not even quite brought up her impromptu excursion in the week since it had happened, despite meeting with her numerous times in the intervening time, and despite the guardsman who’d collected her saying that the Duke had sent him.

She starts across the square, half-listening to the music drifting from the apartment. Half-humming along with the tune. She doesn’t have a destination in mind – all she wants is to see more of the city, itself in a way it can’t be during the day with half a dozen guardsmen escorting her through it. Perhaps she thinks she _will_ find her way back to Aramis and Alexandria - she has so many _questions_ still.

There is a man leaning against the stone wall ahead of her – tall, puffing idly on a cigar – the red coal on the end of it illuminates the shining brass buttons on his pinstriped shirtwaist. There’s a newspaper tucked under his arm. She skirts to the other side of the street, ducks her head to avoid eye contact.

“Are you planning on going anywhere in particular?” the man says, voice soft and carrying. Jessamine freezes, turns to cautiously look at him. He puffs again on the cigar, smoke curling lazily out of his mouth, “Or were you just going to wander aimlessly?”

Jessamine blinks, and turns more fully to face him. “Excuse me?” she asks, squinting hard, trying to discern some familiarity out of the features of the man’s face. Hard to do, between the smoke and the cover of the night, but –

The man grins, the barest hint of teeth of white teeth, gone so quick she thinks she might have - _must_ have imagined it, and dips into a bow.

“Good evening, your Grace,” he says, and – oh.

It’s Captain Attano.

She takes a half step back, forgetting herself for a moment. Draws in a deep breath and draws her own self up, raising her chin. “The Duke sent you,” she says. It’s not a question. Attano nods, standing at attention – an odd thing to see, with him out of his uniform, a lit cigar in one hand and the folded-up newspaper still under his arm, his hair falling out of its neat knot at his neck.

“Yes,” he says, his syllables cool and professional. Jessamine frowns, her fingers twisting into knots at her front. She glances from him to the lights shining only a little way down the street.

She sighs.

She’ll have to try again later – perhaps go out the window. Captain Attano keeps his silence, and she chances a glance back at him to see he’s tilted his head toward her, his expression unreadable. He stubs the cigar out of the brick of the wall behind him.

“I haven’t been ordered to return you to the palace,” he says, before she can break the silence. Jessamine blinks.

“What—”

“It was never the Duke’s intention to make you feel trapped here, your Grace. If you wish to explore the city, then he has no desire to stop you. He has asked only that you allow a chaperone to accompany you,” at this, he gestures to himself, the steady baritone cadence of his voice lilting up slightly, “Karnaca is not – tame, your Grace, and he would rather avoid having to tell the Emperor that he allowed the Crown Princess to come to harm.”

Jessamine blinks again, her chin dipping down toward her chest. “Oh,” she says, “That is - understandable.”

“Do you find the terms agreeable, then?” he asks, a note of - humor? or something like it - present underneath the clipped formality. He holds himself very still - perhaps it’s not humor at all in his voice, she thinks.

She tilts her head. “You are to be my chaperone?”

He inclines his in agreement. “If you find it agreeable,” he says again. Jessamine raises her chin, considering.

“I do,” she says after she’s stretched the silence thin.

He nods, pushes off from the wall, offers an arm for Jessamine to take. She hesitates for only a moment before looping hers through his, resting her hand in the crook of his elbow. The terms, she thinks wryly. There are worse ways to be babysat.

“-Where do you want to go?” Attano asks, interrupting her thoughts with his voice pitched low, private. She chews thoughtfully on her lip a moment before tugging idly at his arm.

“There was a market down at the docks?” she says, for a start, “Can we walk there?”

“Of course.”

 

.

 

“Are you well?”

“Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?” she thinks perhaps he is still thinking of her fabricated headache, but - that wasn’t so long ago, but surely he knows enough to see through the lie. Theodanis levels a measured stare at her.

“Perhaps,” he starts, speaking in a low and sober tone, “It is presumptuous of me to - bring this up. But, well, your-”

“My mother,” Jessamine guesses, her tongue feeling suddenly dry in her mouth. She smiles, empty, “Your concern is touching, Duke Abele, but that was quite some time ago.”

(She still remembers - her father stumbling from the room like a man gutted. How could she forget? It was the only time she’d seen him weep.)

Theodanis’ expression is tinged with - pity? _Sympathy?_ She cannot find the word for it. “Not so long ago,” he says, “Forgive me; I only know that my boys still cry for _their_ mother - Luca would never admit it, of course. I understand that grief can - weigh heavily, on a person.”

_(the baby had never cried)_

Jessamine’s smile remains fixed on her face - empty, empty, empty. She says, “I hadn’t even thought of it.”

 

.

 

“He wanted a boy, I think,” Jessamine says, later, while Kavita takes the pins from her hair, “It _-_ it would have been a boy, if it had lived. It would have been easier for him.”

“I know,” Kavita says, touching a comforting hand to her shoulder, “I’m sorry.”

 

.

 

She wears the dark silver hairpins to dinner the next evening - while it is not an extravagant affair, she knows that Louise will be there, and the woman puffs up like a pleased bird when she sees them glinting in Jessamine’s hair.

Louise chatters, and the Duke carries on polite conversation with her, and Jessamine chimes in when she is expected to, her smile demure and opinions decidedly neutral. She watches the Duke’s boys chase each other around the margins of the hall, tripping over the uniformed guards and shrieking.

(She thinks of the silver in her hair, the silver on lapels and on the table, and the silver under fingernails, in clothes; deep in the earth. She thinks of what Alexandria and Aramis told her, and she watches Louise toss her head back and laugh and she wonders if she sees it beyond the shining.)

 

.

 

“It’s the same everywhere,” Kavita says, her voice low, like she is imparting a secret even with only the two of them in her chambers. She toys idly with one of Jessamine’s captured pawns, rolling the stone piece between her fingers thoughtfully. Jessamine drags a comb through her hair, and considers her next move, “What they told you, about the unions. Mines and factories and dockyards and - nobility. Did you know that?”

Jessamine blinks, and moves one of her knights into place, takes one of Kav’s pawns. “I must have,” she says. The thought of having missed it rears up, too - but. She hopes it’s not that.

Kav stares at her, gaze fathomless. “I don’t need to tell you that you can’t keep putting off meeting with them again,” she says, and takes her knight, “You started something-”

“I need to finish it,” Jessamine finishes for her, staring at the board and planning her next move. She sets the comb down next to the board, “I know.”

 

.

 

“Where do you want to go?” Captain Attano asks her, in the tone of a budding routine. He offers his arm to her and she imagines that he is less stilted about her touch than he was that first night when they went down to the docks.

“I need to find someone,” she says, “I have - business.”

 

.

 

“So,” Aramis starts, barely concealing his stare. He flickers his gaze between Jessamine and the Captain at her side - even out of uniform he is imposing. He fidgets with his pint, already half drunk, and seems to steady himself, “So, you are. _That_ Jessamine.”

The bar is mostly empty - a lucky thing, considering how early in the evening it is. A lucky thing, finding the two of them here again. “Yes,” Jessamine says, and when a moment passes and he says nothing in response, she adds, “Nothing’s changed, I still want to help you.”

“Everything’s changed,” Alexandria says, drumming her fingers thoughtfully on the tabletop, “You _can_ actually help, for one. Why do you want to?”

Jessamine blinks. “I,” she starts, struggling to find words for the nameless, compassionate thing that lives inside her, “I just _want_ to.”

“None of this affects you personally, you understand,” Aramis cuts in, “We’re - glad you’ve taken an interest, but. It won’t _benefit_ you.”

She shrugs, levels her stare at him, then at Alexandria. “But it benefits _you_ ,” she says, “And, you stand to benefit _more_.”

Jessamine feels their gazes burning holes in her - she fights the urge to shift under the weight of their staring, tells herself that it’s no worse than holding conference in court. It isn’t - but. She feels bare, exposed to their scrutiny in a way that she never would be in court. Finally Alexandria nods, and she leans back in her chair.

“I’m getting us all a round. Does your companion want a drink?” she directs the question to Captain Attano.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, shifting in his seat when their attention turns to him, “But thank you.”

“ _We’re_ all drinking,” Alexandria says lowly, “You should at least have something in front of you for appearance’s sake.”

He hesitates a moment, then clears his throat. Says, “Whiskey, neat.”

She nods, and Aramis waves the barman over.

“So,” Jessamine says once he’s gone and it’s only the four of them at the table once more, “I - you’re right, this doesn’t affect me personally, and you don’t have to _tell_ me that I don’t - understand the nuance behind this subject. I know that - but what I _can_ do is fund your efforts, to start. To function as the compensation that you aren’t currently getting from the mine management, or whatever you may need it for, until a more permanent solution can be reached.”

Aramis and Alexandria share a glance. Jessamine can feel Captain Attano’s eyes on her, and the barman brings a tray bearing their drinks. “It’s a start,” Aramis says, lifting his half-drunk pint in acknowledgment, “More than what we have.”

“To headway,” Alexandria says, raising her glass.

 

.

 

“Have you lived in Karnaca your whole life, Captain Attano?” she asks the Captain quietly later that night, while they are winding their way down a quieter street to a busier avenue on their way back to the Palace.

The streetlights seem liquid - gold pooling around the lampposts. She is grateful for his arm steadying her - the drinks had - hit her harder than she’d intended. She had talked with Aramis and Alexandria for _hours_ , playing cards and drinking and letting the hours slip by. She had remembered too late, _far_ too late, that she had neglected to _eat_ to counterbalance the alcohol but - it had been _nice_.

“I have,” he says. She cranes her neck to watch the warm light play shadows across his features.

“That must be nice,” she says, feeling slightly breathless, lightheaded and loose-tongued, “Do you have many friends here?”

A flicker crosses his features, “I -” he starts, and she feels a hot flash of shame wash over her.

“Oh, goodness,” she says, the shame coiling and curdling in her belly, “I’m - I’m sorry, that was personal. You don’t have to answer that, Captain, of course.”

(it was only-)

“We should get you back to the Palace,” he says softly, his expression unreadable once more, “It’s late.”

It seems - reasonable. Only, her pace slows until she stops. “No,” she says, “Please, not yet? Forgive me, I was only - if you’ve lived here all your life, Captain, then you must know of a good place to eat before we go back?”

He stares at her. She presses her lips together, adds, “I am hungry,” she says, wincing at how plaintive the words sound, how _small_ , and the shame rolls over her again - she is perhaps more drunk than she’d thought, and how _embarrassing_ this must be for _him_ , if she is feeling it like this -

“Your Grace,” he starts, and she realizes with another jolt that she’s been staring at him. She turns her eyes away.

“I’m sorry, Captain Attano, I do not think I am myself,” she says, her voice like wood, “You are right - it’s late.”

(it is only - she is _lonely_ )

Silence drifts between them, and then he says, “Your Grace, you may call me Corvo.”

She blinks. “Oh,” she says.

He shifts his weight from one foot to another, then gently starts leading her down the street once more. “There is a place near here,” he says, and she marvels at how gentle his voice is, “The food there is - perhaps a little more plain than you might be - used to, but it’s good. I would be happy to escort you there, if you wished it - but not tonight. It _is_ late.”

“Oh,” she says again, feeling unsteady and something like a broken audiograph. She adds, hesitantly, “Soon?”

He inclines his head. “If you wish it.”

She nods. “That - that would be nice,” she says. she feels something settle in her chest.

There is silence between them during the return to the palace, of the calming sort.

.

 

“May I ask a question?” Corvo asks before he leaves her at the door to her chambers. Jessamine blinks, thrown.

She says, “Yes, of course.”

“Why do you want to help them so much?” he asks.

“It’s -” she starts. She shrugs, feeling somewhat dizzy. “I want to. It’s the right thing to do.”

He inclines his head, the confusion lingering on his features, but quieting. “That’s - good of you.”

Jessamine shakes her head. “Maybe,” she says, “But that’s not what it’s for? It’s-”

“The right thing to do,” Corvo finishes softly.

 

.

 

“What do you think of him?” she asks. Kav hardly glances up, her brows drawn together.

“Who?” she asks, rearranging the cosmetics on the vanity. Jessamine’s fingers move restlessly over her shirt collar, smoothing non-existent wrinkles. Lingering on the cool curve of the brooch.

“The Duke,” Jessamine says, her brow furrowing.

“Oh,” Kav says, tilting her head. She turns a perfume bottle, inspecting the label and the contents, “Well… he seems to be a good man. He’s well-liked by his staff. Really - I’d imagine you’d know him better than I.”

“Mm,” Jessamine says in response - an agreement, more than anything, “How do you think he feels about -”

“The mines?” Kavita guess, when she trails off without finishing her thought, “From what I understand, he’s inclined toward compassion, and is more liberal-minded than his peers likely give him credit for. It couldn’t hurt to ask _him,_ though.”

Jessamine nods, returning to fiddling with her shirt and her waistcoat. A thought catches her attention, stills her fingers, “What did you mean, ‘who’? Who else would I ask you about?”

Kav turns enough to raise an eyebrow in her direction.

 

.

 

Corvo makes good on his word - he takes her to a quiet avenue lit by oil lamps and the fading evening light, and he leads her up a narrow flight of stairs into a comfortable cafe a level above the streets. The windows sit open, flowers growing in troughs on the sills.

He exchanges a few words with the host and then leads Jessamine to a table in a shaded alcove, tucked behind a screen, away from the rest of the cafe floor.

A pleasant hum of conversation and music drifts through the café. No one looks twice at either of them, and she listens to Corvo order in rapid-fire Serkonan from a young man that drifts by after they’ve sat down.

“What did you order?” Jessamine asks, her curiosity piqued. Corvo freezes, his hand halfway to the decanter of spiced wine on the table.

“Bowls of paprika soup with accompanying bread for both of us, to begin,” he says softly, a flicker of something like guilt crossing his face, “My apologies - I should have asked you if you preferred something.”

She shakes her head, says, “No - please don’t apologise. I’m sure it will be wonderful, you said that this place was - good?”

He tilts his head, then nods. “It is very - plain,” he says, like he’s still apologizing. Jessamine smiles softly.

“It smells wonderful,” she says, because it does - a heady mix of florals and wine and spices and tobacco. Silence falls over them again. He nods again, and for lack of anything else to do he pours them both glasses of the wine. She watches his hands - they do not shake - she wonders if he feels as keenly awkward as she does.

“How are - you enjoying Karnaca?” he asks finally, carefully. She leans forward in her chair, tilting her glass.

“It’s nice,” she says honestly, “I like it more that I can see it like this - thank you.”

He blinks. “Of course,” he says, then adds, “To be truthful I’ve - you know that I’ve lived here all my life - I’m always curious how it appears to - others.”

“It’s a fine city,” she says, “From what I’ve seen. I’m excited to see more.”

He nods. She swallows, sips at her wine, and then asks, “Have you ever wanted to travel?”

He shrugs loosely, mimicking her actions. “It’s never really - been in my means,” he says softly, and she feels immediately foolish for having asked - but he continues, “I nearly went to Dunwall, almost two years ago.”

She clings to the thread of conversation, hauls herself forward and asks, “Why didn’t you?”

He shakes his head - and a slight smile tugs on his lips. It looks - rueful, she thinks. Or wry. “The situation changed,” he says, “I stayed here instead.”

 

.

 

“You look pale,” Louise comments, reclining in her seat, a slim cigarette held loosely between her fingers. The parlor swallows the sound of her voice - still the sound drives a pike through Jessamine’s skull. “Are you feeling well? Shall I call for something cold?”

Jessamine shakes herself free from her stupor, glancing away from the elaborate glasswork in the window. She’s not feeling well - but to admit that to Louise is unthinkable. Blood in the water. She makes herself smile. “No, I’m quite well,” she says, and Louise _harrumphs._ Smoke curls lazily from the glowing tip of her cigarette. She brings it to her mouth and inhales deeply. It has been three hours of stilted conversation since she called her to her house in Aventa, begging for company.

“ _I’m_ not feeling well,” Louise says on exhale, frowning deeply, waving the smoke away from her face. She does look tired - exhausted even - her hair curling limply over her shoulder, dark circles under her eyes. “Stefan, will you be a dear and call for tea?”

The three of them make an odd triangle - Jessamine near the window, Louise by the liquor cabinet, and Stefan not far from her. He rises, strides to the door of the parlor and peeks his head out. Carries on a short conversation with the maid outside.

“It’ll be coming shortly,” he says on return, taking his seat once more. He leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “Louise, my Lady - I’m sorry to bring a business matter into your home, but I do need to bring your attention on a certain matter -”

“Is it about the union?” she snaps. Jessamine winces at the sound, but her interest is piqued. She casts a curious glance sideways at the man. He hesitates, a fraught expression flickering across his face.

“... Yes,” he says. Her frown deepens, and she waves dismissively.

“ _Fuck_ the union,” she says. “You’ll deal with it.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, then he nods, brushing dust off his jacket. The silence stretches longer, grows awkward and stale.

Jessamine bites down on her cheek, fights a wince when the maid knocks on the door, slips in bearing a silver tray. The pitcher gleams with condensation in the heat. She leans forward while Louise pours herself a tall glass.

“This is a lovely home,” Jessamine says politely, if only to break the silence. Louise raises an eyebrow, settling back on her cushions looking like a cat with canary.

“ _Isn’t_ it?” she responds, a sly smile twisting her face. She presses the cool glass against her forehead, “That’s one good thing, isn’t it.”

“Louise,” Stefan says, and she sighs.

“By all means, Stefan, help yourself to some tea - pour some for our Princess, too?” she says, saccharine sweet, “It’s imported from Redmoor, did you know? Pairs wonderfully with Tyvian wine - perhaps I shall demonstrate at my next banquet. You will attend?”

Jessamine says, “I told you I would.” Louise nods, sinking back in her seat, appeased.

She looks tired, Jessamine thinks.

“Louise,” he says again, “Perhaps you ought to retire for the afternoon? I think you’ve overexerted yourself.”

“I thought Karnaca was supposed to _heal_ all ills,” she complains, her tone wretched, _miserable_ , “Stefan - I feel as though this heat will kill me.”

She reaches out for him. Jessamine takes it as her cue.

“I should take my leave,” she says softly. Louise stares at her, plaintive, but does not argue.

 

.

 

“Theodanis,” she says, as casually as she is able, “What are your thoughts on the current way Karnaca’s mines are owned and operated?”

He peers at her from over the top of the newspaper, expression guarded. Slowly, he folds the paper, sets it down to the side of his plate.

“What,” he says, “Do you have in mind?”

She smiles. “I’d like for you to meet someone.”

 

.

 

She falls into something of a routine - her days slide by, formless, interrupted on occasions by meals with the Duke.

The afternoon she goes with Louise and a retinue to the new Conservatory is a break to the monotony - the curator had named a suite of gardens in her honor, made an event out of it - and her enjoyment of it was interrupted only Louise passing lewd comments on the extramarital dalliances of one of the painters whose art was hung in the gallery. Jessamine had been entranced by the birds - hanging quiet and imposing in the main hall - and the roses.

Louise Chattoway collects her for excursions into the city less and less frequently - and she feels like perhaps she should be more concerned about that, but - she’s more relieved than anything.

And - Corvo keeps escorting her into the city in the evenings. He speaks freely about the histories of buildings that he knows of - exploits he’s had in the guard, and on rare occasions, his childhood.

(A Picture: they walk down a block, and Jessamine points to a building, the windows shuttered and a seal on the door. She asks, “What happened there?” and he makes a face, says, “Bloodflies,” as if speaking of an infestation of termites or something equally benign.

“Are they very dangerous?” she asks, her eyes wide as they pass by. She fancies she can hear a low humming from the building, and Corvo leads her gently onward.

“Yes,” he says, “But only if you get close. I used to throw stones at the nests, when I was a child.”)

She repays him in kind as best as she’s able -

(“I stayed in the old keep at Wynnedown,” she says, “It was - very old; the walls were, on average, five feet thick, quarried from local seastone. When the tide came in there was a cathedral that would sing - the acoustics had been made to take the waves and make music from it. I don’t know how, but-”

Or

“My mother kept gardens in Potterstead. There was an old willow that she loved to sit under,” she says, her eyes prickling under the canopies of massive swaying trees in the Cyria Gardens, “I haven’t been back there in years.”)

She grows acquainted with him, and on very rare occasions she manages to make him laugh. It unsettles something within her, and she is left wanting to hear it again, and again. She treasures it.

And -

She keeps meeting with Aramis and Alexandria. She throws herself into the work, drafting plans and proposals during her free daylight hours, presenting them in the evenings.

(“How would you like to have an audience with the Duke?”

“What.”)

Time passes her by, and she feels herself settling. The warmth of the city sinks into her bones.

And then it is the anniversary of her mother’s death.

 

.

 

“No one will blame you if you stay in your chambers today,” Kavita says, and so she does, curled in a light robe in a chair by the window, with the sun on her face and a breeze coming up off the ocean.

It has been - years. She turns her mother’s brooch over and over again in her hands, and she wonders why she feels like she is drowning still. It’s been years - and she was a child when it happened.

She wonders if her father is mourning - back in Dunwall, in his own strange way. Light from the window tracks across the floor, inch by inch, hour by hour. She watches ships come and go from the harbor.

There is a knock at the door. She starts, blinks grit from her eyes. She says, “Come in,” her voice sounding rough to her ears.

The door opens. Someone clears their throat.

“Good afternoon, your Grace,” Corvo says, shutting the door quietly behind him. She blinks again, twists in her seat and - it is him. He’s standing in his uniform, looking strange to her in the light of day, “Forgive me, if I’m intruding I’ll leave.”

“No,” she says, turning fully, “No, you’re not intruding but - I’m not going out tonight, I’m sorry, I can’t.”

He inclines his head. “I didn’t expect you to,” he says, “I was - it may be presumptuous but - was wondering if you’d like some company?”

She blinks. He is smiling - just the barest hint of it, a nonthreatening, gentle expression - and she feels something threaten to shatter in her chest.

“I would,” she says, her voice a tiny, trembling thing. She gestures to the seat across from her, “Would you sit?”

 

.

 

_Father,_

_You have not asked, but I am doing well in Karnaca. I am learning quite a bit._

_Perhaps you should come south._

_With Affection,_

_Jessamine_

 

.

 

“Your chaperone,” Kavita says, “Captain Attano. He’s kind, by all accounts. Quiet.”

“I could have told you that, I’m sure,” Jessamine says, frowning. Kav hums, is silent for a moment, then glances at her, sly.

“ _Honorable_ ,” she says.

“Kavita!” Jessamine yelps.

Kav snorts. She puts the perfume in the drawer. Her manner changes. “Are you going to survive dinner at Lady Chattoway’s, tonight?”

Jessamine tilts her head, regards herself in the mirror. She looks more stately than she has in weeks, she thinks. Her hair piled high on her head - the mourning pins fixing the style to please her host of the evening. Her collar is high and dark, the fine cloth starched stiff. “We’ll see,” she says.

 

.

 

Louise is wearing red at her party, a shade darker than the uniforms of the guardsmen stationed at the doors, and looking pale, her eyes dark and shining in her pale face. She hides it well but Jessamine can see her hands shaking when she raises her champagne flute for a toast.

“To prosperity!” she chimes, smiling wide and red, red, red, the silver glinting on the table. Stefan stands at her side, perhaps too close to the widow for propriety, but who is Jessamine to comment? She raises her glass with the rest of them, sliding back into courtly manner like she’d never taken the mask off. “ _Salud._ ”

A chorus of _Salud_ follows. On the stage of Louise’s grand hall the band picks up, begins to play.

The guests break, crowds forming while staff clears the table of the dinner - the guests eye the guardsmen warily, giving them a wide berth, and Jessamine nearly feels bad for being the reason for their presence - but the Duke had insisted, and she’d agreed readily. Corvo is even here, standing at post near the door to the gardens.

Jessamine drifts, watches Louise dart around, and she makes polite conversation with those who approach her.

Inevitably, inevitably, Louise corners her, taking her arm and walking with her around the margin of the room, skirting the crowd.

“Good evening, Princess,” she says, smiling so broadly Jessamine must think it hurts, “I’m so glad you could come!”

“I told you I would,” Jessamine reminds her gently, then frowns - closer it is more apparent that she is unwell - there is a line of perspiration along her hairline, veins showing plainly in the shadows under her eyes. “Are you - well?” she asks, concern taking root despite herself.

“Yes,” Louise chirps blithely, and then hesitates, “Perhaps. It is only the heat, I think, or -”

“Or?” Jessamine asks. Louise _tch_ s.

“It is the heat,” she says firmly, “I am well! How could I not be, with such company?”

Jessamine inclines her head, elects not to press the issue. “You’ve attracted quite the crowd this evening,” she says, and Louise tosses her head back, laughs.

“Well,” she says, “I did _try_.”

She flits away, leaving Jessamine behind.

 

Jessamine escapes to the gardens before long - chasing fresh air and _quiet._

Corvo follows her - he is still her chaperone, after all. She stands at the edge of a sunken pool, drinking in the cool night air, and he comes to stand beside her.

“I used to be able to do that for hours,” she says quietly, “I’m out of practice.”

“Seems exhausting,” Corvo agrees, “Is that what Dunwall’s like, then?”

“Mm,” Jessamine tilts her head, considering, crosses her arms over her chest and watches the moon’s reflection in the water, “Similar. This is worse.”

He laughs at that, and it unfolds something between her lungs. She finds herself grinning.

“You could always see it for yourself. There’s not much appeal in participating, true, but,” she pauses, collecting her thoughts, keeping herself from stumbling over her words. She finishes lamely, “But it’s fun sometimes to watch the spectacle.”

He grins - the expression melting honestly and openly on his features and _lingering_. “Perhaps,” he says. They lapse into a comfortable silence.

“Why _didn’t_ you come to Dunwall?” She’s wondered since he first mentioned it in the cafe, that night which feels like so long ago now.

The mood shifts.

Corvo swallows, his jaw working.

He casts his eyes to the side, and for a moment she thinks he won’t respond. But then he says, simply, “My mother - became ill. I begged the Duke not to send me.”

Jessamine feels her heart drop to her knees. “Oh,” she breathes, reading the line of his shoulders, the unhappy twist of his mouth, all of it - she reaches out, takes his hand. “Oh, Corvo, I’m so sorry.”

He stares at her hand over his, surprise writ clearly on his features; when she does not pull away he slowly, carefully shifts to tighten the hold, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. “Thank you,” he says, swallowing heavily.

And - he makes no move to draw away - she becomes aware of how _close_ she is standing to him - she is hyper _-_ aware of the calluses on his palm, the heat of him radiating.

Her breath hitches in her chest, and -

And then, in the hall, someone screams.

 

.

 

“She fainted,” Kavita repeats, her tone disbelieving.

“She did!” Jessamine says, “Anyone could have told that she wasn’t feeling well - I don’t think she has been since she came to Karnaca, but - well. It was very dramatic.”

“Is she hurt?” she asks, morbid curiosity leaking into her tone. Jessamine shrugs a shoulder, pulls the comb through her hair and brushes it back over her shoulder.

“The doctor said she’ll be _fine_ , apart for her wounded pride,” she says.

“Well,” Kav says, her tone distinctly unimpressed. She sniffs delicately, “How fortunate for her. Will she be staying in Karnaca? Do you want the blue or the green waistcoat-”

“Blue,” she says, turning the comb over in her hands, “And, I don’t believe so - it’s been established that ‘ _this wretched place’_ is bad for her health. I imagine she’ll be returning home to Gristol.”

“Mm,” Kav says, coming back with the blue waistcoat, “That’s for the best, I’m sure. Will she be leaving her mines in the care of her old foreman?”

Jessamine thinks back to the night before - how close Stefan had been standing to Louise, how he’d rushed to her side when she’d fallen. “No, I think he’ll be going with her,” she says slowly, “I _believe_ the mines are being left in the care of the state until a new foreman can be appointed.”

Kavita pauses, regarding Jessamine. “Tricky,” she says, and Jessamine smiles.

“It’s for -”

She’s interrupted by the door to her chambers opening. A young man steps through, clutching a letter in his shaking hand. He says, “Begging your pardon, your Grace, but a wire’s been received for you. It’s from Dunwall.”

Jessamine’s heart leaps up to her throat, lodges there. She holds a hand out for the folded slip of paper, and marvels that it does not shake.

“Give it here then,” she says softly, and he does.

 

Her father is dead.

 

She does not know how long she has been sitting in the room alone. The letter sits discarded on the desk, and the light from the window has tracked across the floor, inch by inch, hour by hour.

It feels - unreal.

She is going home.

She is going to be _crowned_.

The thought is almost too big to fathom. It rises up in her chest, threatens to choke her, and she raises a shaking hand, presses it to her mouth. She feels fever-bright and terrified, grief-stricken and full to bursting.

She is to be crowned.

The door opens. She turns, rising with more grace from her seat than she thought capable of - and there is Corvo. He stands with a hand on the doorframe, a funny expression flitting over his face before it settles into a cool sort of detached professionalism. He closes the door behind himself, and he bows low.

(it is-)

“Je-“ he starts, then catches himself, “My Empress.”

She frowns, tilts her head, closes the distance between them. He rises from his bow, and seems surprised to find her standing so close. He swallows, looks as if he wishes to speak but cannot find the words. Jessamine knows the feeling well.

(He looks - shuttered - and it is so different from what she’s grown used to in these past weeks and weeks that it is - unsettling, to say the least)

“Your Majesty,” he says finally, mechanically, clearing his throat, “I heard that you will be returning to Dunwall.”

“Yes,” Jessamine says, her hands hanging loose at her sides. She wonders if she sounds unhappy - _why_ she feels unhappy, to be returning home. It is all she has wanted. Corvo swallows again.

He takes a half-step backward. “I am,” he starts, then hesitates a moment before continuing, “I am glad to - if you will excuse me, I -“

He takes another step backward.

She can see it clearly, _feel_ it clearly, rising in her like a wave: she is to return to Dunwall. She is to be crowned, and to become the Empress her father hoped she would be. She is to leave Karnaca behind.

(to leave _Corvo_ -)

(And it is -)

“Corvo-“ she says, stepping forward and reaching out, her hand catching his sleeve then settling on the warm, solid bulk of his shoulder and -

A notion catches, takes hold in her mind - an _impulse_ and

(void, void, _void_ )

she is finishing, she thinks, what they started that night, not so long ago, what _nearly_ was, but not quite, and he is bending himself to her with his shaking hands coming up to frame her face, _close_ , but not quite, and he trembles under her hand, his heartbeat and her own going thready and sweet, caught up like two gentle, tender things - the impulse, the _impulse_ \--

And she closes the distance and fits her mouth against his and kisses him.

 

“Come with me to Dunwall,” she asks, she says. His breath is warm on her cheek, his body flushed warm under her hands. She is standing on the precipice of something. Perhaps they both are. “Please.”

“Yes,” he says, “Yes, of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY 
> 
> first off THANK YOU SO MUCH to my two lovely artists, [grayson](https://manecoon.tumblr.com/) and [matt](lmaodies.tumblr.com) \- they are the Best Eggs and i do not deserve them <3 <3 <3
> 
> SECOND thanks to [luci](carvedwhalebones.tumblr.com) for hosting a WONDERFUL EVENT
> 
> seriously yall i had the time of my life (even though it nearly killed me h a h a). as always i can be found [on my tumblr](seaborgois.tumblr.com)


End file.
